


Every Stone You Threw (I Stood on to Better See the View)

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humour and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Developing Relationship, Dry Humping, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geraskier Week, Geraskier Week 2020, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Nipple Play, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Resolved Sexual Tension, Snark, Talking Things Over Like Adults, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Geralt tries to make amends while endeavouring not to make it worse. It's a happier ending than what he deserves, surely.(Written for Geraskier Week 2020 Day 4: Hurt/Comfort.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 1018
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Every Stone You Threw (I Stood on to Better See the View)

**Author's Note:**

> There are probably a lot of fix-its floating around, but I have read none of them because I am g a y and s o f t and need to work my emotions out through my own fic before I can break down with somebody else's.
> 
> Title from "Wild Blue Yonder" by The Amazing Devil because. I had to. I did.

"You're really and truly a dick," Jaskier says, which isn't _I forgive you_ , or even _sit down_ , but it's not a dismissal either, and thus Geralt feels sufficiently confident he's not going to get stabbed with a fork that he takes a seat at the same table a modest distance away across from where Jaskier has been brooding over his ale for at least the better part of an hour when Geralt happened upon him in this particular tavern.

Placing his own tankard down, he tries to abstain from anything overly dramatic, such as staring Jaskier down until he speaks to him. Insults don't really count.

It's been a month, not enough time for Jaskier to grow less upset with him but perhaps enough that he might be amenable to a reconciliation of sorts. Geralt didn't mean to track him down until he found himself doing just that, and then it was simply a matter of focusing his attention and energy consciously on one particular spot, only to find that spot contained Jaskier, alive and well and very much incensed still. Not an unusual reaction, all things considered, to being blamed for another person's entire misfortune.

Wrongfully blamed, Geralt has since realised. In fact, he made that very realisation once off that damned mountain, stopping off for the night on his way anywhere else. Looking into a lonely campfire hours after telling someone off had the effect of making one question where the blame truly lay. Because Geralt was yet again alone, by his own making this time around. Thinking of Yennefer was naturally painful, therefore he thought of Jaskier, which turned out to be unexpectedly just as painful.

So now this tavern. And an apology, of course, has to be forthcoming. To clear the air between them. The little bard might be an annoying shit, but Geralt isn't in the business of doling out blame where none is warranted. He's been sitting and drinking, and has considered walking out at various points in the last hour, Jaskier's table secluded in a corner where he shouldn't have been able to spot Geralt or ever know he'd been there if Geralt didn't decide to walk up to him to announce his presence. He's learnt a lot by simply watching. There's more to learn now, from the tightness of Jaskier's shoulders to the grip he has on his drink, knuckles white on the handle.

Minutes pass. If Geralt were the sort of person to land himself in awkward scenes, he would qualify their situation as such, without a doubt. Tense and frustrating are things he can describe it as much more accurately since these are both things he can and has felt. Breaking the tension should, then, fall to him.

"I was... unfair," he states. A good start, he believes, until he takes a good look at Jaskier's grey eyes and realises his mistake.

"Were you?" It's not, technically speaking, an actual question. Not that there would be even a fraction of a second available for Geralt to answer it anyway. Jaskier doesn't stop for breath. "Hmm. _Hmm._ Were you? About what? What could you have _possibly_ been unfair about, I wonder? Nothing comes to mind," he says, waving his hand not holding his drink around, nearly hitting himself across the forehead in his fervour.

"Jaskier," Geralt says pointedly, but closes his mouth against saying more when Jaskier's looking increasingly more flushed and biting his lip, seemingly fit to burst with more than what he's already said. It's only fair that he should say his peace.

But he doesn't. He bites down, jaw visibly tensing, and glances away to a spot above Geralt's shoulder, all animation leaving his limbs as suddenly as it took possession of them, his body seemingly deflating before Geraly's eyes. It's the opposite of a desired outcome however he cuts it.

Waiting on Jaskier doesn't work out. More minutes pass, during which his expression grows strangely more thoughtful than Geralt's ever glimpsed it in the years they've known each other. He tries a different tack.

"We could go. Speak somewhere else. We can take Roach and follow the main trail while the light lasts."

As soon as he says it he wants to take it back, desperately. No change of setting could conceivably help. To exchange a tavern, a table in a secluded corner, for the middle of the woods is both counter-intuitive and possibly counterproductive.

Jaskier's eyes snap widely to attention. "I'm sorry, but what?" Voice strangely mild in the face of Geralt's words, it clashes with his suddenly intense expression.

"Jaskier, you don't—"

"I'm amenable. To, uh, that." His eyes aren't blinking often, he notices, as if he doesn't want to take them off Geralt at all.

"Hmm."

"What? What is it? Is that an affirmative? I'm going to need actual words, _Geralt_."

It's a pointless plan, he regrets bringing it up, unless Jaskier thinks it has merit, and he seems to be indicating that it does, therefore there's no reason to not take off together. Almost like old times. Only it's, very obviously, not like that at all.

Words. A word. "Yes." He hopes it's the right one.

They get up to leave, Jaskier leading the way, then awkwardly stopping to wait for Geralt to get Roach once outside, feet shuffling the dust from the street in little clouds around his legs. Silently, he leads her and Jaskier out of town and into the woods at the outskirts. He doesn't have a conversational gambit for when he's going to reach the spot where they will presumably set up camp and talk. He leads them out until it becomes less afternoon and more evening, twilight at the edges of the trees. He ties Roach's lead to a tree and builds them a fire and boils them some water to wash before he brings out something to eat, because it was his idea and he took Jaskier away from a tavern where he clearly hadn't eaten. It's quiet where they sit side by side on their bedrolls, too quiet, the entire time they walked and now as well, because Jaskier is holding his lute but not bothering to strum it, much less give them a song. The twilight makes it almost seem like a dream, slightly unreal. Only in a dream would his bard not sing them a melody.

Expecting it, Geralt finds it eerily quiet around them without it, is what he's saying here. Not even Jaskier's mindless chatter. Not that Geralt misses it, per se, but its lack is unsettling. Borne badly.

Finally, the silence is broken by Jaskier himself, who has yet to touch either the bread or the cured rabbit Geralt has offered him, by his stating in a manifestly unquestionable tone of voice, "I've decided this is ridiculous."

Geralt couldn't agree more. He _wants_ nothing more than to move past this. Before he can respond in any way, Jaskier continues with, "You should hit me."

"What."

"Relieve the tension and all that. That always used to work out quite well for you."

This isn't. What is this. "No."

"You're being awfully uncooperative, you know. I could certainly try to hit you instead, if you'd like."

Geralt gives him a look. It proves effective, to a certain degree.

"Fine! You actually want to discuss things and all that rot. Fine! You were a dick and will for eternity continue to be a dick, and I'll put up with it because, you know, I'm me. So that's that," he finishes, folding his arms across his chest, though he ends up half-hugging himself instead of giving off an air of subtle dignity Geralt believes he was going for. His words penetrate, though.

"You shouldn't have to," Geralt grunts out.

"Yeah, no, I get that, but I probably will. You know what I'm like."

"Don't be."

"Telling me how to be isn't the way to my heart, you know," he points out far too fairly.

Crazily, Geralt wishes he would lash out. Anything but these verbal kid gloves he's put on when he should be angry still. Perhaps his getting a good hit in wouldn't be the worst, although, given his track record, there's a not insignificant chance he might injure himself instead by going against Geralt. The desired catharsis would be rather dulled under all the pain and blood.

Sighing, Geralt comments, "I'm not trying to get to your heart," before he quite thinks those words over sufficiently.

Rolling his eyes, Jaskier says, "Yeah, well, you wouldn't," and sort of scoffs, but there's something there which pries at his edges to burrow just barely underneath his skin. An itch starting to take hold. A question quickly following in its wake.

"Do you want me to?"

Eyes widening comically, mouth doing a great impression of a landed fish, Jaskier manages, "What. No. What. Of course I— Fuck!"

And then he, for some unbeknownst reason, dives sideways headfirst into his bedroll, similarly to how a big bird might endeavour to hide its head in the sand, only Jaskier is a man and his bedroll isn't sediment. Geralt can see him, and can thus easily reach for his shoulder to turn him around to face him. Even in the meagre light of the fire on a moonless night, Jaskier's flush is visible to Geralt's witcher eyes.

Before he can be interrupted, he says as plainly and as clearly as he is able to, "I'm sorry. For this, and for what I said last we were together. That is all. I do consider you... a friend."

"Oh." Then, "Yes, of course. Apologies accepted, I guess." His mouth stays open for a long moment afterwards, as if he has more to say, but he bites his lip before more words can surface. It blossoms beneath his teeth, his lip, and he has to lick it nervously before adding, "This won't be a problem. I consider you a friend, too. Obviously."

There's nothing obvious about it, but the words spread a strange warmth in his chest Geralt can't quite name. He grunts instead, and the moment holds oddly.

"What I said back then. About life being too short. Perhaps too short for me alone. You very obviously don't have that problem. Neither has Yennefer. Other problems perhaps, but not where lack of time is concerned. That you should still consider me a friend, in the end, when we must all of us humans seem like a passing fancy, well. That means a lot."

"Have you figured out what pleases you?" It's a non sequitur, a stray thought which pops into his head unbidden, the sort of thing he would think over from every angle and every direction before speaking it, but it comes out all the same.

Jaskier doesn't question why he's asking, just rolls with it. "I always knew, I think. Had trouble verbalising it to myself. Bard without words. Ha! That's a lark," but, despite the sing-song of his syllables, he sounds anything but good-humoured, far from remotely jovial.

It lingers on the air between them, suddenly. "You smell like fear." It niggles at him, the scent.

Narrowing his eyes, Jaskier replies, "That's not a thing." Turns his head to Geralt, body still facing their fire. "It's not, is it? You always say shit like that, but what does fear even smell like?" He scoffs, eyes dancing around the trees behind Geralt, then turns back to staring into the fire, though Geralt has an inkling he's not really seeing it.

He ignores the question, and Jaskier seems to have moved on anyway, no longer quite engaging in conversation, too thoughtful-looking to contribute much more.

The fire dies down, and Geralt leans over to throw another piece of wood onto it, to keep it going, but the movement must snap Jaskier out of whatever trance he was in.

"Well, I should, uh, go now," he mutters.

"Go where?" he grunts out.

Jaskier sucks on his teeth, pensive. "No clue."

"Sit and eat. The fire is going. You'll leave in the morning."

"How do you know I haven't got anyone waiting in town?"

Geralt frowns. "Do you?"

"No," he sighs. "I'm even less of a worthy travel companion to anyone else than I was to you."

"Hmm."

Despite it being a quiet night, their campsite cosy and presently warmed by the fire, Jaskier doesn't get ready for sleep, therefore Geralt decides there's not much point in him doing that either, and they end up wordlessly watching the fire burning down to merry, uncomplicated embers. Geralt gets up at one point to put a few more logs onto it to keep it going, but Jaskier's eyes don't track his movements or acknowledge him in any way, never look away from whatever's in front of him, which Geralt is starting to think isn't either the fire or the woods but rather his own thoughts.

Slowly, he begins to lose himself into the fire as well, until only the faintest of movements on Geralt's left announces the first few vibrations in the air around them from Jaskier plucking at his lute. He turns to stare at the side of his head while a few notes turn into a melody, no words to it yet, perhaps one of Jaskier's newer ones, a work in progress.

It never does become something more concrete, not presently, and the fire dies down with the last notes unfinished, and they finally burrow into their bedrolls to sleep. Geralt gets a decent amount of hours to call himself rested, but has the distinct feeling that Jaskier maybe does not, an impression which becomes fact once he glances at the circles underneath his eyes come daylight.

By tacit agreement they pack up and leave the campsite, heading in the direction of a town they can already see in the distance. On their first stop to eat Geralt goes off to hunt them a couple of fat rabbits, returning to find Jaskier's head lolling into his neck where he's leaning into the trunk of a tree. Soft snores come quickly thereafter. He fixes the rabbits and starts a fire and makes them a hearty stew with what herbs he has handy and a few roots. He wakes Jaskier only when the stew's steaming but no longer likely to burn the tongue. He thinks he sees him flushing in embarrassment, but they don't say much, other than Jaskier thanking him, though it's unclear whether it's for the food or the couple of hours or so he got to finally rest or both, but Geralt's not the sort to pry in that way.

They reach the town in the middle of the afternoon. Geralt expects them to part then, but they both enter the nicest inn at the same time and, surprisingly enough, Jaskier orders them a drink to start with. The tick in Geralt's jaw unloosens, untenses, momentarily forgotten. The quiet of companionship isn't something he's ever yearned for, can't say he yearns for it now, but a few more quiet hours together can hardly do any harm.

It kind of all goes to shit soon enough, because of course it fucking does.

Jaskier has done well for himself with his songs, but there's always more he can do to keep his own reputation and fame going, and Geralt is good at providing the sort of basis for outlandish tall tales to sprout from which the general populace do want to hear about.

All in all, he was mostly looking forward to good wine and perhaps a bath of the hot variety. But shit seems to come at them rather readily, regardless of intentions. Geralt grips the reins, and tries his best not to say the wrong thing yet again, although the fact of the matter is that they're the both of them riding on Roach at a middling gallop in the hopes that distance will lead to a distinct lack of a pitchforked mob on their tails.

It's truly astounding how the day can flip. "You stabbed a tavern patron with a fork," he muses once more, the notion continuing to befuddle.

"He was very rude," Jaskier sniffs, looking dodgy and a little contrite even from Geralt's position behind him. "And you, _sir_ , chopped his finger off with his own dagger."

"He was about to stab you with the very same dagger while his friends were holding you down," he grunts out.

"It was a minor disagreement at best," Jaskier rolls his eyes, glancing at him over his shoulder.

"You used a fork."

"See? Cutlery is hardly a weapon."

"Jaskier."

"What? Like it's my fault? No one asked you to leave the man with an unequal number of fingers on his hands."

He snorts before he can quite help himself. He can't see Jaskier's face anymore as he's turned back to facing the front, but with Roach's movements he can glimpse at the side of his face without telegraphing what he's doing, and at least one corner of Jaskier's mouth is tipped upwards.

After a good distance stands between them and the town they've just left, and the sun is a barely visible sea of orange on the horizon, they stop to make camp by a reasonably secluded creekside copse of trees. Starting a fire is not the best of ideas, but it's a mild evening and the trees are a good shield against the elements.

"I was so looking forward to a good bath, but I guess this creek's as clean as they come." Geralt refrains from commenting lest they get into another argument regarding the whole fork-stabbing situation.

He goes to take care of Roach, patting her down and feeding her nearby to where they leave their packs, only to return to the water as the last traces of pink and grey in the sky turn to a starless dark to find Jaskier's clothes thrown about some small distance from the water and him shivering visibly while trying to set some sort of record where soaping himself down is concerned.

Maybe a fire would be a good idea after all. He decides to risk it and gets it going by the side of the water as Jaskier shivers his way back to shore, presumably a great deal cleaner now. Goose pimples stand out sharply even in twilight, his limbs snaked around himself to provide little warmth. He looks smaller than Geralt rationally knows he is, the muscle seeming leaner, his arms and legs thin, his face and prick flushed rosy.

"Holy shit was that a bad idea."

"Hmm."

"You're not going to go in, are you?" he asks mildly horrified watching Geralt start to remove his armour. "It's your funeral, my friend." But he does hand him what turns out to be lavender-scented soap Geralt has no reasonable reason not to use.

The water is, indeed, freezing, but it bothers him little, washing himself perfunctorily as he watches Jaskier put on a fresh set of smallclothes and then approach the water to wash the clothes he took off before with another bar of soap he retrieves from a small pile of things he brought over. He hangs them on thick branches he brings closer to the fire, and sits himself down on a larger log to watch them drip water and dry.

Shortly, Geralt decides he's as clean as he'll ever be, even his hair, and leaves the water for the shore to get dressed. Jaskier looks pointedly away the moment the water begins receding from his body. He doesn't put his armour back on, but the rest is clean enough. He could sit and watch the fire, but he built it thinly, a momentary reprieve from the cold only. It dries Jaskier's clothes neatly and keeps them warm right after their turn in the creek when the cold's like needles, but it's not meant to last past its original scope.

Watching it die down is oddly unsatisfying. He leaves Jaskier to it while he makes up their fireless camp. A bottle of weak cider he managed to procure them for the road before Jaskier's inventive use of household goods got them chucked from the town accompanies some salted pork and two-day old bread. Jaskier makes his appearance before long. They eat quietly, the stars barely visible above them, and then only when the wind blows particularly harshly.

Jaskier doesn't play them a song, and Geralt doesn't ask him to.

They finish up in next to no time. Briefly, Geralt considers broaching the subject of what happens tomorrow, but he can't get a proper read on Jaskier. Sleep beckons. Geralt gives in as he stares at the dark foliage above them, the wind finally at a standstill.

Something wakes him. That something turns out to be Jaskier, awake and shivering.

He doesn't bother whispering. "Cold?"

"Uh. Maybe?"

"Jaskier!" he snaps, not actually knowing why he's all of a sudden annoyed at something so innocuous in the dead of night.

"Fine! Yes! There's no fire—"

"You know why—"

"Yes, yes, fork-stabbing, I get it, I'm not blaming you. But I can't help my body's decided it's going to shiver its way apart," he finishes with a huff.

Geralt must be an idiot. He _is_ an idiot. A thoughtless idiot. Because he rolls over and throws his blanket over the both of them, before he asks, "May I?"

And maybe Jaskier is an idiot, too, because when Geralt touches his waist his back straightens to a stiff board for only an instant before relaxing into Geralt's grip pulling him closer until there's no part of him that isn't covered by Geralt's blanket over the both of them.

Swallowing loudly, he then says what Geralt expected him to say, or at least something very similar, something Jaskier-like. "A chap might get the wrong idea."

"What idea is that?" he asks, even though he knows exactly what this seems like. What it, truthfully, is.

He waits for Jaskier to offer up an answer, but, seemingly knowing that saying it would make it real, Jaskier doesn't, and that's about when it starts feeling awkward. It wasn't awkward holding Jaskier in the dark to keep warm, but it sure is now. Geralt's an idiot.

"I'm sorry."

He starts to turn away and get his body away from Jaskier's, who suddenly is rolling over to face him. It's unlikely Jaskier can see him in the dark, but Geralt can make him out well enough, and there's a deep frown deepening further while the scent of fear, sour and pervasive, invades their covers and the air around them.

"No, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that, other than being a moron made me say it."

"Jaskier."

"You keep saying my name, but there's no one else here." Tries to laugh it off, but it comes out thin and weak and unfunny.

Geralt sighs. Settles the arm which he'd used to hold Jaskier close in the space between them. It's warm underneath their blankets, soon likely to turn hot, stifling. Geralt almost wants out of them. Almost.

Jaskier surprises him by next saying, "I wish someone else _were_ here instead of me."

The start of a headache is rearing its nasty head. "What are you talking about?"

"You know. Don't pretend you don't, Geralt, it's not a good look on you, pretending."

What can he even say to that?

"Look, I'll make myself scarce next town we stumble upon. I'm still set upon the coast. A change of air will do me good."

The coast. Ah. "That's much farther east than where we currently are."

"No, yes, I know. But I've got a few good ones I'm working on, proper travelling ditties. It'll help gather some coin on the way. I don't plan on spending all my sunny days once I've arrived making ends meet, you know." He even smiles at that, though it looks oddly sad in the darkness of the night.

"Hmm."

"Uh," he then starts rather awkwardly, "I guess you're going to go back? South's nice this time of year."

"It's not and I'm not."

"Oh?"

"The coast," he throws out, carelessly, as if he isn't about to wreck them both with his words. "Wouldn't mind it." His voice makes him sound as if he's upset about it. In the dark, Jaskier's eyes get big like dinner plates.

"Oh?" he asks once more, evidently shocked.

"Jaskier," he says again, probably not for the last time, not if Jaskier's willing.

He's willing. He leans in first, before Geralt can even ask, and it's as it should be with him, his lips pressing delicately to his as if Geralt were a lady at court, which he isn't, but it's still perfect because Geralt gets to pry them apart to tongue his way inside to fuck his mouth as he wants to. Jaskier agrees with that course of action, seemingly wholeheartedly so judging by the way he's pulling him closer, stretching the seams at his shoulders in his haste to gain some sort of leverage. Geralt is less aggressive with his clothes in turn, discarding his shirt and smallclothes easily while mouthing at his jaw, but far more efficient as Jaskier's nakedness lies before him while he's dressed still.

Jaskier notices he's entirely nude with the slowness of a glacier melting under the hot sun, but far more enthusiastic about it.

"On top of me, come on, _fuck_ , come on." As if Geralt isn't doing just that. Isn't shifting their blankets until they form a cocoon around them, and he can finally sink into the warmth between Jaskier's open thighs.

Latching onto a nipple straight away just to foil whatever expectations Jaskier may have had turns into a far more expansive activity. He's sensitive. The noises he makes are too sweet, his hips buck and thrust too wildly, and Geralt finds he can easily have him moaning and pleading with well-applied teeth and tongue and pressure. He shifts to the other, but not before unbuttoning himself with nimble movements Jaskier almost impedes in his haste to help, but Geralt preemptively stops any complaints once he nibbles around the little nub while he pinches at the other with quick fingers.

Their hips start a rhythm all on their own, one that's harsher than Geralt could have envisioned. If his mouth weren't occupied, it would have him panting wetly with the feel of it.

His mouth leaves Jaskier's chest to nose almost innocently at his hairline as his hips fuck up and in, dragging their cocks together deliciously. Jaskier moans, a full-body shiver accompanying the sounds. Geralt goes back to his mouth to muffle the noises and dip his tongue back in to lick around the back of his teeth and his soft palate and the sounds right out of his throat. It leaves him with whines and keens, a small animal caught in a trap.

He's caught out first, though, somewhere between a grunt and Jaskier's hands scrambling at his shoulders to pull him closer. His prick catches on Jaskier's own cockhead, drags alongside it _just so_ , barely intentional, hardly adequate as far as previous experience goes, but enough, too much, all at once everything he needs to come dizzyingly between them.

Jaskier squeezes him between his thighs then, rides his lower stomach with buckling upward thrusts to finish on a soundless gust of breath by Geralt's ear.

"Well." It comes sooner than expected, that's for sure. "That's a thing we certainly did which cannot be undone," Jaskier breathes out rather quickly for someone whose heartbeat is just now slowing down to a normal tempo.

"Hmm."

"For the record, I am very much amenable to that. In the future. A lot."

Even though it isn't funny, Geralt snorts into his armpit where his face has ended up resting. And there must have been some tension lingering, even after everything, because Jaskier's body seemingly melts into the ground at that. Geralt's lips can't help but turn up into a smile as his own shoulders untense.

It's unclear whether Jaskier expects an answer from him, but he feels as if he owes him one, so he promises, "We will." And, although he can't see his face, he thinks maybe Jaskier is smiling, too.

**Author's Note:**

> A labour of love, this. Kudos/comments will, of course, be greatly appreciated. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


End file.
